Underneath
by The Tragic Muse
Summary: After disappearing from Gotham, Bruce Wayne meets a woman who helps him in a rough spot. He doesn't think much of the encounter until he's back at home seven years later and meets her again. Only, this time his alter-ego will need her help. BrucexOC
1. Prologue

**Underneath**

Rating: T for later chapters

Brief Summary: After making his escape from Gotham after the Chill trial, Bruce Wayne crosses paths with a student of archaeology in Morocco, where she helps him in a rough spot. He doesn't think much of the encounter until he's back at home seven years later and meets her again. However, this time, his alter-ego will need _her_ help as a perplexing series of murders occurs in Gotham. Really, it's a lot better than it sounds.

**Hey there! I'm Sasha, and this is my first published story here (or anywhere). It's also my first Nolanverse Batman fanfic. That said, I do not own Bruce Wayne (sigh), or any of the characters you will recognize. They belong exclusively to DC Comics, Warner Brothers, and the Nolan brothers. I do, however, own Zoë and the characters you _won't_ recognize. This is merely the prologue, so I swear that Batman will make his appearance very soon. Enjoy! ;)**

ooo

_Morocco, seven years prior_

The first time Bruce Wayne, Gotham's prince, had to choose between stealing and going hungry, the image of Joe Chill flashed through his mind and stopped him before he even made it to the fruit vendor's stand. The pangs of hunger he'd been feeling for the past few days all of a sudden seemed to vanish, though just for a few moments. They were replaced with something far more painful: memories. He felt the same pain he experienced when Chill took his parents from him, and he felt the more recent sting of the bastard's trial and death (which he still, on some level, wished he'd been responsible for—despite Rachel's tongue-lashing). Even though he ached on account of his psychological scars, he realized that what he was about to do, what he thought he'd never have to do, was a choice. Everything which caused him pain in his life boiled down to choice. Chill chose to kill his parents, and he had chosen to try and shoot Chill as an act of vengeance. Whether he succeeded or not wasn't the point; what mattered was the fact that he'd almost done it. If he _had_ been successful, he would have become a criminal himself. No matter what his intent and his own sense of justice were, he'd have made the choice of turning into the man he hated. He'd have become just one of many murderers in Gotham.

So, here he was, making yet another choice. Of course, it paled in comparison to contemplating murder. All he'd have to do was surreptitiously sneak a kumquat or two into his pocket. Either that, or he'd have to turn to panhandling. There were too many beggars on this dusty street; he'd be lost among them. It didn't matter that he was one of the richest men on the planet because he was presently sitting with his back against a building without a penny to his name, eyeing this one fruit stand through throngs of busy market goers. He could tell the people his name all he wanted, but he wasn't recognized in these parts. After all, he certainly didn't _look_ the part of a playboy billionaire. His face was caked in dust, his clothes were torn, and he'd grown a beard. If anyone _did_ know who he was, they'd not believe him in a million years. So he needed to make a decision quickly. He closed his eyes, racking his brain for any alternatives. Call Alfred and go back to Gotham? No, he couldn't do that. The wounds were still too fresh, and he'd have _a lot_ of explaining to do once he got back.

Unable to think of any other solution to his little problem, he made his decision. Now, he wasn't thrilled about it, but he was desperate to eat. He'd steal the food. If he ever returned to Gotham and his billionaire lifestyle, he'd come back and give the vendor all the money he wanted, but, for now, he needed sustenance. Before he could talk himself out of it, he got up and dusted his worn slacks off—not that it did much considering that the street itself was nothing _but_ dust. He bided his time, only walking through the crowd when he could easily blend in. For his whole life, he was used to sticking out in a crowd because of his status as the heir to an empire. Now, he was one of many. The only difference between him and the majority of the people here was the colour of his skin. He was in Africa, after all, and now considered a minority. Hopefully, _that_ wouldn't draw too much attention.

The stand had a steady stream of customers when he got there. Perfect. The vendor was distracted by them and their various questions about the quality of his wares. While the man tended to his customers, Bruce's hand began to creep slowly toward the kumquats he was eyeing. Everything was going according to plan. That is, until a hand placed itself on top of his own as he grabbed the first piece of fruit.

"You know, they don't take too kindly to thieves around here."

_Shit,_ Bruce thought. It appeared that he'd be panhandling for his food after all. He looked up at the voice, his expression almost like a deer in headlights. What he saw definitely threw him for a loop.

The hand and voice belonged to a young woman who was probably his age or slightly younger. Her face was partially shaded by a New York Yankees baseball cap, though he could see a few wisps of pink-streaked brown hair which had escaped from under it. Her skin was pale, which surprised him on account of Morocco's constant sunlight. She probably used sunblock religiously. He continued eyeing her, almost unsure of what to say. He noticed the way she held herself. She stood up tall and straight, suggesting an air of confidence. Her frame was feminine, almost like a slender hourglass, but her arms were well-muscled. She wore a faded t-shirt with a band he'd never heard of in the front of it, and she had on a pair of black cargo shorts and sandals. A canvas bag with a picture of a panda hung over her shoulder. Even though her look didn't scream maturity, he could tell that she was a serious individual. Perhaps she was a student.

"Anyone home in there?" she asked, noticing his eyes inspecting her. "Do you speak English?"

"Uh...yeah, I-I do. I just thought that..."

"That you'd get away with it? You probably would have if I didn't see you there." Her way of speaking was calm and her expression soft. He thought he saw her lips pull into a small grin. "Sorry to foil your plans."

"It's fine. I'll just go now. Don't worry." He turned away from her, making sure that he put the kumquat back in its place. He only made it a few steps before he heard her voice again.

"Hey, wait! You look hungry. I can buy some of those for you. I don't mind."

Bruce stopped, surprised once more by this young woman. "No, you don't have to. It's not necessary; I shouldn't have to impose on you when I was about to..." he said, gulping before he continued, "to steal."

The woman shifted her weight to one side and gave him a skewed smile. "Yeah. Desperate times, though." With that, she reached into her panda bag and pulled out some money and extended her hand. "Take it."

"I can't."

"You can, but you just won't," she countered, sticking it into his hand anyway. "So, I say you will. Oh, one more thing." She reached into her panda bag once more and pulled out a small loaf of bread. "I just bought it, but I think you need it more. Anyway, bread sits in the stomach. I probably should've thought about that before I bought it!"

"No. I draw the line there," Wayne said, reluctantly taking the money. "You keep the bread."

Suddenly, another voice sounded near them.

"Zoë!" said another young woman, stopping right in front of them. She took a few seconds to catch her breath before continuing, "Where the hell have you been? The professor's found something huge! It's an old grave marker, and he needs a second opinion on the translation. So, move it!"

Zoë looked between her friend and Bruce before saying to the latter, "Yeah, I have to go. Try to stay out of trouble, yeah?" Despite his protests, she stuck the bread in his free hand and turned on her heels to follow the other woman. Within seconds, she was lost in the crowd.

Dumbstruck by what had just transpired, Bruce turned to the vendor and wordlessly bought enough food for at least three days, if he'd rationed it well. Though he remained curious about Zoë, she eventually faded to the back of his mind until their paths crossed once again years later in Gotham.

* * *

**Well, I hope you liked it! If you have any nice comments (or constructive criticism—I'll take that, too), please review! The next chapter will have Gotham in it. :)**


	2. Supplicant

**Yay! People have been reading this. Again, you know the deal. I own nothing you recognize. **

* * *

**Supplicant**

Johannes Mueller had spent almost his entire life working his way in and out of Gotham's criminal system. He'd been one of those kids who had never had a chance at anything. Growing up with parents who were less than supportive and living in the roughest parts of the Narrows, he was never able to realize his own potential to do good and change the world for the better. He was a lost cause from the moment he took his first breath. Desperation had ruled his life instead of love.

He'd had his first taste of criminal life at the ripe age of twelve when he stole a bike. When he was younger, he'd always wanted one, but his parents couldn't afford it. At least, that's what they used as their excuse. True, they could hardly scrape enough money together for the monthly rent, but they didn't care enough about their son to buy him anything but clothing. They hadn't even planned on having him in the first place, so they got away with the bare minimum when it came to parenthood. As he got older, Johannes learned to use his parents' apathy to his advantage. They never asked him to tell them where he went when he left the apartment, and they hardly noticed when he got back. This only made it easier for him fall into a life of crime.

After he dropped out of high school, his criminal record skyrocketed. Within the span of two years, he'd been arrested on counts of drug possession and distribution, theft, arson, and assault. By the time he reached his twenties, the gravity of his crimes increased. He'd been arrested for mugging and rape numerous times, yet he'd managed to avoid jail time by saving up for a good attorney. However, things changed when he'd committed his first murder. He was caught right at the crime scene, trying to stuff the man he'd killed into a nearby dumpster. No lawyer could argue for his freedom. He'd been sentenced to eight years in prison, but he'd been released on good behaviour after five. No one in the police department was particularly thrilled about this, but they trusted that the terms of his parole would keep him at bay for at least a little while.

Within months of his release he'd been arrested once more for drug possession and distribution. A string a petty crimes followed after those charges. His record began to fill up so quickly that the officers of the Gotham City Police Department could practically greet him by name. They often joked that it was Johannes Mueller that kept them busy. Batman did the rest, the bigger jobs which the GCPD couldn't carry out with their own limited resources. Though, who knew how long it would be until the Dark Knight had to take care of him once and for all?

* * *

Mueller pulled his jacket closer to his body as he waited by the docks. He never understood exactly why people had to meet there; the cold that blew in from the water was worse at night, and it wasn't as though they could meet in broad daylight when ships from all over the world were loading and unloading their wares (which were mostly in relation to Wayne Enterprises). The downfall of meeting at nightfall, however, was running into Batman. _Yeah right_, he thought. He'd always brushed that possibility off as something that would never happen to him. After all, he'd been a criminal all this time without being caught by the masked menace. Even so, he'd keep his eyes alert.

He had a box right by his feet that was given to him by some shady guy on the other side of town only one hour prior. His instructions were to take box to the docks where he'd wait for a man by the name of Jones. He'd followed those directions to a T; the better he carried out his task, the more money he'd be paid. That's how it worked, no matter what task he was supposed to carry out.

"You here for Jones?" another man asked him from the shadows. This startled Mueller, but he quickly regained his composure.

"Yeah. What's it to you?" he asked, trying to get a better glimpse of his new companion.

The mystery man emerged from behind a vacated shed, stepping into the flickering glow of a rusty streetlight. He certainly looked the part of a questionable pick-up guy, from the black trench coat down to the dark boots. He had a gleam in his eye that made Johannes leery of him.

"Well, you just gonna stand there all night?"

The man finally replied, "I'm Jones. Do you have the box?"

"How do I know it's really you?"

Jones chuckled, a skewed smirk on his face. "Look on the inside flaps of the box. It should say 'Allen' somewhere."

The younger man got to his knees, never taking his eyes off of the newcomer. He took his switchblade out of his back pocket. It would be stupid for a guy like him to go unarmed to a drop off. In one fluid motion, he cut through the tape and pried the box open. Tilting the box toward the light, he tried to find the word on the underside of any of the four flaps. Sure enough, the word "Allen" was there in small print. So, this guy was for real after all.

"And I'm just supposed to give it to you, right?"

The other man nodded, "That's what I had in mind, yeah." He walked to Mueller eyed the box on the ground. "I've been waiting for this."

The younger man was curious. "What's inside?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," Jones said. "But, I suppose there wouldn't be any harm in showing you." With that, he knelt down and gingerly began to remove the contents from the box. It was delicate, for it was wrapped in newspaper and bubble wrap. He expertly removed the packaging without the aid of a knife and showed the object to Mueller. "Actually, there may be _a little _harm in it."

Mueller didn't have time to react. He fell to the ground and saw no more.

* * *

Red and blue lights illuminated the docks as a steady stream of police officers examined the area, hoping they could find some evidence and call it a night. Identifying the deceased took all of two seconds, but that wasn't even half of the work. The only things to be found were the deceased, a switchblade, and an empty box. However, the body itself complicated the matter even further.

Batman watched from the shadows above, eager to find out more in regards to the body. From his perch, he could tell that this wasn't some random murder; the corpse was against a tower of imported crates, his wrists nailed into the wood. His head was jerked back at an awkward angle with two coins laid over his unseeing eyes. The killer had somehow managed to maneuver his victim into a kneeling position, implying the pose of a begging or praying man. He'd never seen anything like it.

Lieutenant Gordon looked dazed, running his hand through his hair as he stared at the crime scene. He remembered the days when a simple bullet in the skull was the only method of murder in these parts. The times had changed, and he had no idea how to explain this to the others at the MCU.

"Do you have anything?"

Gordon flinched visibly, looking to his left to see the shadowy mass of the Batman. "You need to stop doing that!" he barked, losing his calm not only because of the late hour, but because of the nature of this murder. He ran his hand over his face and took a deep breath. "His name is Johannes Mueller. We know him very well over at the MCU—I think he's been there more than he's been at his own home. Charged on various drug counts, arson, rape, murder, you name it. I can't say that I'm devastated by his loss."

"And the coins? The box?" Right to the chase, as usual.

"The coroner said something about some ancient tradition about placing coins over the eyes of the deceased to guarantee safe passage to the next world. And frankly, that's the only thing I've got on that matter. As for the box, empty. Not sure if it means anything, but one of the flaps said 'Allen' on the inside. Could have been a recycled box, for all we know." The lieutenant exhaled loudly and stared at his unlikely ally. "Can you do anything with that?"

"I'll look into it."

"Good enough for me right now," Gordon replied, looking at Mueller's body get bagged up. When he turned around, Batman was gone.

"He _really_ needs to stop doing that."

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Alfred Pennyworth was waiting for Bruce when he arrived back at the penthouse. It didn't have the same comfort of Wayne Manor, that was for sure. He'd still found it difficult to make himself at home there, and the time he spent waiting for his master to return passed slowly. It was a relief to hear the door open. The butler had never said it outright, but he had genuine fears for the day when Bruce never walked through that door again. He'd quipped about that day he'd say, "I told you so," to his young master, but he deeply hoped he'd never have to.

"Alfred," Wayne greeted simply.

"Ah, Master Bruce. Glad to see that you've made it into tomorrow. Do you need anything?"

"I need you to stop staying up till all hours of the night to make sure I arrive back safely. That's what, my friend," the younger man replied, giving Alfred a pat on the shoulder.

"Well, I was hoping one of these days I would get paid extra for it," the Englishman replied dryly but jokingly. Thomas and Bruce Wayne had been kind to him. He couldn't possibly ask for anything more of them. "Now, if you don't mind me asking, what kept you?"

Bruce paced over to the nearest chair and slumped down upon it like a bag of cement. Sighing in relief, he closed his eyes before replying, "There was this pretty gruesome murder down by the docks. Young man by the name of Johannes Mueller, and, from what I understand, he had quite the colourful criminal record. The way the body was positioned was like some sort of ancient ritual. There were coins on his eyes, even. I can't make any sense of it."

"Of course you can't, Master Wayne. It's three in the bloody morning!"

Bruce chuckled, "That, and I know nothing about ancient rituals."

"Oh! That reminds me, sir."

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow night you have to be at the Gotham Museum of Anthropology and Archaeology for the opening of the Wayne Wing of the building. Suit-and-tie affair, I can assure you. I'd hope you have a _little_ something prepared for it."

The young man groaned loudly, "That's tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. But look at this as an opportunity. I'm sure they know plenty about ancient rituals."

"Alfred, you're an absolute genius."

"I try, Master Bruce. I try my best."

* * *

**Well, there's the first chapter for you! I hope you found it enjoyable. I'd hate to bore. Please review. It'd make me happy (and my 18th birthday is on Sunday). **


	3. Tiny Update

Wow! I'm so surprised by the positive reviews for this story. I'm glad that you're enjoying it, and I'd love to continue making you happy by updating. There's a catch, though...

I had surgery on Wednesday (nothing life-threatening, I assure you), and the Oxycodone is making me a bit loopy, especially since the anesthesia has gotten itself out of my system. I promise an update this week; I know where I'm going with the chapter. It's just a matter of execution. My plan is to chip away at the new chapter instead of rushing it. I want to make this good. :)

So, for those of you on story alert (^_^), you now know why I've not posted a new chapter. I'm going to delete this little note when the new chapter's ready.

Until then,

Sasha


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